


dot your t's and cross your i's

by betony



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/pseuds/betony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three forms Jemma Simmons filled out for S.H.I.E.L.D., and one she hasn't (yet).</p>
            </blockquote>





	dot your t's and cross your i's

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkasrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkasrain/gifts).



i. 

At sixteen, only just having left Oxford with double firsts, Jemma wants the world. She wants to squeeze out every bit of adventure and excitement she can get from it, and she wants to do it now, before it’s too late and she wakes up as her mum, head of the biotechnology department at a nondescript university and married to the boy next door. 

She admits as much to her grandmother’s childhood friend over tea, and rather than responding with polite horror, the older woman raises an eyebrow. 

“That’s quite a tall order,” she replies. “And how exactly, Miss Jemma, do you intend to manage that?” 

This is rather more encouragement than Jemma’s ever had before; Mum just clucks her tongue and tells her she’ll grow out of it, and Dad starts whinging about how he’ll miss her. She takes a deep breath. 

“I’m not sure, exactly—not yet, at least—but I expect I’ll think of _something_. I might go abroad—Oxford is wonderful, of course, but there are so many brilliant minds out there, and so many places I’d love to visit…but Mum and Dad won’t hear of me taking a year to travel, of course. They say I’m far too young.” 

Her hostess hums speculatively. “If that’s the case, there’s an academy, that you might find rewarding. Across the pond, I’m afraid, and unfortunately no one there will have any idea how to brew a proper pot of tea. But they’ve quite the impressing roster of rotating lecturers, and, once you graduate, rather the sort of job opportunities I suspect you might find rewarding. I’ve a spare application that you’re welcome to, and for what it’s worth, I’d be happy to add my own recommendation.” 

She hands over a rather nondescript brochure that Jemma reads with increasing delight. Yes, this—this will do quite nicely, and even her parents won’t be able to say a thing if it comes from one of Gran’s friends. 

“ _Thank you_ , Miss—Madam—“ Jemma wishes she’d paid more attention when Gran was making introductions before ambling off to answer the telephone. 

Peggy Carter smiles and takes another biscuit. “Agent,” she corrects gently, “and you are most welcome, my dear.” 

(Mum and Dad are horrified when they discover Agent Carter’s Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division is actually some sort of mad, American-run spy agency. Jemma is not.) 

All in all, the decision to go is easy enough to make; the application, on the other hand, not so much. 

Jemma slaves a full three days—longer than she’s ever had to work at _anything_ \--over it, carefully filing out everything from question 1B) _What do you feel is your greatest weakness?_ to question 39AA) _Please detail any contact with extraterrestrial substances, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral._ When she’s checked over it over for the fifth time, she folds it up, all forty-five pages of thick and posts it off to the address Agent Carter gave her. 

All that comes back is a terse note taped to her application: _Forms are to be completed in black ink, not blue or any other color. Please recopy and submit. MM._

Jemma grinds her teeth, thinks of the filthiest words she knows, but she goes back and fills out her form again anything, hating the mysterious MM all the while. Never let it be said that Jemma Simmons gave up easily. 

ii. 

Simmons thinks it says something about S.H.I.E.L.D., that even their administrative assistants appear perfectly capable of incapacitating a baby elephant without even stepping out from behind their desks. This one, a lovely dark-haired woman, looks even more intimidating than the rest of the lot, if possible. It’s just Simmons’s luck that everyone else had already gone home. 

“Good morning,” she calls cheerily. “I imagine you’re busy, so I’ll just drop this off and—“ 

The assistant takes the proffered file wordless and flips through it with a single, efficient motion. 

“That’s your third application in as many months,” she says in a monotone, though Simmons can hardly blame her; she’d be close to tears herself, working in such a gray, dull cubicle as this, without the familiar hint of formaldehyde or the streaks of grease Fitz leaves all over their counters. 

“Yes,” says Simmons, “well, unfortunately, it is, but as my mum always says, _if at first you don’t succeed_ \--“ 

“You’re SciOps,” the woman interrupts, as though Simmons hadn’t even spoken. Humph. “You should have enough to keep you busy.” 

“Why, yes,” and a smile comes less easily this time, “but when I applied to the academy, I expected….adventure, excitement, _travel_. You don’t get that 

The woman looks down to study the form once again. “And you think you’ll get that in the field?” 

“I know I will.” 

She flips through to the next form. “And this…Leo Fitz, he’s just as sure he knows what he’s signing up for?” 

“Of course,” Simmons lies blithely. She does not think about the argument she’d just had with Fitz, when the stubborn fool went on about, there were guns, Simmons, guns out in the field, guns and knives and _weapons_! 

She’d not even bothered to argue, just gazed pointedly down at where he was assembling a combination taser and GPS. 

“That’s different,” Fitz spluttered. “This—this is a controlled enviroment. There—there anything could happen!” 

“Exactly what I mean!” said Simmons. “Anything could happen, anything at all. Fitz, I’m going, one way or another. Are you coming with me or not?” 

He signed the form, however grudgingly, and Simmons dashed off to turn in their paperwork before the offices closed. Assuming, that is, that this woman would file her transfer request instead of holding it out to her expectantly. 

“I suggest, Agent Simmons, that you take some time to reconsider your career options.” Simmons begins a passionate defense of her goals, but the woman continues, “or barring that, remember to use black ink.” 

Something about the weariness of her tone prompts Simmons to eye her nameplate, and sure enough, it reads, MELINDA MAY. _M.M._ Of course. 

Simmons raises her chin defiantly. “Thank you for the advice, Agent May,” she says coolly, “but I’m afraid my mind is made up.” 

She doesn’t see Agent May again until she climbs onto the Bus. It is not a pleasant surprise. 

iii. 

They listen to Frank die through Coulson’s earpiece, Fitz so white Simmons thinks he’s going to be sick, her hand clutching at his shoulder as though it were the only thing keeping her standing, and when it’s over, Agent May confirms that Ward, Skye, and Coulson are all safe before switching off their comms. 

“Come on, you two,” she says to them, and that's not a tone with which anyone could argue. Jemma obeys. 

“Wait,” says Fitz, scrubbing at his eyes. “Don’t—don’t we need to track them back to the Bus?” 

May pauses, looks them both over again. “No.” 

She puts them in the interrogation room, and normally Simmons would have a grand time sending a Look at Fitz, letting him know how ridiculous it is that Agent May needs anything so elaborate as an interrogation room when she could probably get answers by crooking her left eyebrow at someone, but it’s not funny right now. Nothing is. 

May sets them across from each other, a clean piece of paper and a pencil before them, like a mum trying to set up a playdate. “There,” she says. “Write down every good thing you remember about Franklin Hall.” 

She retreats, leaving them with only each other and the ghost of Dr. Hall. 

Simmons stares at her paper for a long minute. All she can think of to write is: _Did not try to kill us (specifically) (Though most probably we would have become collateral damage as well.) (But it likely wouldn’t have been personal.)_

On the other side of the table, she can see Fitz moodily drawing what’s likely meant to be an explosion and a number of stick figures, flung mercilessly around—well, either that or an electron shell diagram of gravitonium; Fitz had never been known for his artistic skills. 

Still. They’d vouched for Frank before Coulson. Simmons frowns and starts to write again: _Marvelous teacher. Terribly enthusiastic about science. Never fell asleep during his lectures. Told us we’d the best minds of any students he’d seen. Pushed us into pursuing the Reyvajik internship. Wrote us a recommendation for working on the El-Em-Dee project._

Fitz, too, is scrawling: it’s nothing more than a blueprint for one of his machines, but it had been one that he’d been particularly proud of, one that Hall helped him fine-tune. Come five years later, he’s turned it into the Night-Night Gun. 

By the time May comes back, they’ve filled both their sheets of paper. Her face, as always, is unreadable. 

“The others are only about two minutes out,” she offers, and now Simmons knows who’s been tracking the team. “Wheels up in fifteen. If there’s anything you need to strap down in your lab, I’d do it now.” She gives Fitz a meaningful stare; apparently she _hadn’t_ missed him complaining about how their best set of Erlenmeyer flasks had shattered after May had executed a particularly rapid take-off. 

Fitz gulps, and as one, he and Simmons push their sheets of paper towards May. 

“Is this a debriefing?” Simmons asks, and goodness, her voice sounds odd: hoarse and trembling and not at all Agent-like. 

“No,” says May, and she hands them their papers again. “One day, you’ll look back on today and you’ll want to mourn Hall. These are to remind you that that’s all right.” 

Fitz opens his mouth and shuts it, then opens and shuts it again. May just looks inscrutable—or no, realizes Simmons suddenly, she looks bone-tired. She always does. 

Someone ought to break the silence, Simmons thinks, and before she knows it, her lips seem to be moving. Oh dear. 

“Probably for the best,” Simmons hers herself say airily, waving her pencil about. “since all S.H.I.E.L.D. forms must be completed in black ink only.” 

The corner of May’s mouth actually twitches. She considers that a victory. 

iv. 

After tempers have (mostly) cooled down, May finds Simmons in her bunk. 

“Skye will come around,” she says. “It’s only a shock at first.” 

Simmons forces a smile. “Oh, absolutely, she will. And perhaps she’ll make Ward stop brooding and Coulson from looking as though I stabbed him in the back while she’s at it.” 

“It takes time,” May tells her, and sits down beside her. 

“I only wish she’d hadn’t come across my transfer application. Stupid of me to leave it lying out in the lab, but it was only a moment, and I was almost done with my final elongation—“ 

May says nothing. Simmons takes this as a cue for an explanation. 

“I love all of you more than I could ever say, and it’s nothing any of you did or said or suggested, but oh, it’s been _years_ since I published _anything_ , or since I worked on a project for fun instead of because the world was due to end in twenty minutes, or since I didn’t jump whenever someone called me Simmons instead of Fitzsimmons. I—I need a bit of a break, that’s all. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” 

“Fitz leaving, too? 

“Not much sense in being Fitzsimmons-without-the-Simmons, is there? There’s a research project in Tibet he’s longing to join. He’s planning on waiting three months or so, to stagger it a bit. And you needn’t worry; there’s a few agents in SciOps who’ll do a marvelous job of taking over, honestly, you won’t even miss us—“ 

“It’s not about replacing you. It can’t be done.” 

There is a brief awkward pause. 

“But we’re family.” May turns to look straight at her. “And part of being family is letting go when you have to. Besides, it’s never goodbye for long.” 

Simmons tries valiantly to pretend her vision is blurring, but it’s all rather hopeless once the sniffling begins. Fortunately, May doesn’t appear to have much patience with sentimental scenes, either; she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a slender gift-wrapped box. “I was saving this for a going-away present.” 

“A present?” She squints at May. “You knew?” 

“I guessed,” May says gently, and Simmons remembers all at once that she’s talking to the woman who’s spent the last few decades running from the specter of the Cavalry. Naturally she’d understand the need to reclaim an identity. 

“I will be back,” Simmons promises, uncertainly. 

May squeezes her shoulder. “I know.” She gestures towards the box. “Now open it.” 

Simmons does, undoing the ribbon, peeling back to the paper to show—a simple ballpoint pen. With black ink. 

“Maybe just this once,” May drawls, brandishing Simmons's half-completed application, “you might do it right the first time.”

Simmons grins and uncaps her pen.


End file.
